Plotting
by LimaxSlugfest
Summary: A baking, mollycoddling lunatic takes a shine to Kurt and decides to do whatever it gets to get him anything his heart desires. Even Finn. Rated for the sake of safety. Main pairing evident. OC will remain alone. Side pairings possible.
1. Old Lady of Novelty

It can be stated, without risk of hyperbole, that I rather much dislike the language of Spain. It can be stated, with some risk of hyperbole, that I abhor Spanish. I've no vendetta against the Spanish speaking population of the world, don't get me wrong, something about the language just doesn't sit right with me.

I adore Latin, and most of the Latinate languages by means of extension, particularly Italian. French, then Romanian, then Portuguese. I even prefer German, Dutch, Sesotho, Swahili, Tajik and Bengali to Spanish. I know next to nothing about most of them(French and Latin, itself, being exceptions, for I know some of both.), but of the little I know of all of those, I still can place it above the little I know of Spanish.

This having been said, it's understandable that I would be upset to discover that I was placed in Spanish when enrolling for classes at the next school I'll attend, just because I did so in the middle of the year when Spanish was the only language with space left. Allow me to now wallow in self-pity.

So now I'm sitting in Spanish class and am incredibly itchy. Clearly I'm allergic to Spanish, it's the only logical explanation. I am in desperate need of music, too. I doubt the teacher will appreciate it if I burst into song, like I fear I'll do at any second. It's a generally prohibited behavior in most classroom settings, and I don't think Spanish is an exception.

***

If Mr. Shuester had known, during class, that the new kid was simply restraining an urge to release a chorus of "Run Bobby Run", he wouldn't have been nearly as concerned as he currently was. As it is, he didn't know, which prompted the request for her to stay behind a moment after class. Seeing as she didn't know this, said new student was panicking and under the impression that her aversion to Spanish was evident enough for the teacher to discharge her from his class. She may detest Spanish, but didn't want to go through the hassle of switching classes just because of it.

"Miss…"

"Pamela. That's my name."

"Pamela, then. Are you feeling okay? You were very spacey in class, and if you aren't feeling well, then I suggest you go to the nurse." Will looked at the flustered girl walking beside him. He realized that she was covered from the neck down in doing so. Ankle length skirt, winter jacket, and a thick scarf. "Were you overheating? Do you need water?"

"What?" She squeaked. She looked a great deal more alert now. And a bit indignant. "Nonsense! I'll have you know that I'm on the verge of chilly, at the moment. There was nothing wrong. I just ha… had to sing very badly, and was about ready to kill someone if class didn't end soon. Now I have to prolong my lack of song because I'm explaining to you that I need to do so. And I've got no clue where English is."

He would have offered to look at her schedule and give her directions, but she had already plodded off, scarcely avoiding ramming into people, most of whom looked startled when she shot past them.

He decided that he'll have to question Miss Pamela Anise immediately.

***

Puck had never been slammed against a locker before, and decided that it was not a very pleasant sensation. Some pale chick had bore into his side and pinned him against the wall. He looked down. "What the…"

"Where is room 17?" She growled. He decided that she was crazy.

"That way."

Psycho-Chick immediately released him and pulled a snicker doodle from a bag slung across her shoulder. "Thank you!" she squeaked, shoving the cookie into his hand before rushing off in the direction indicated, bearing a broad grin and humming. Guess she's bipolar, too.

Puck wondered briefly whether the cookie was poisoned, then ate it, because food is food. Whether you get it from a violent psycho or not. Turns out that it was pretty good.

***

The night after my first day at the high school, my Mommy decided that I should join a club. Partially to make some friends other than the lunch ladies, custodial staff, teachers and the guidance counselor, and partially so I wouldn't be underfoot while Mommy was "setting up camp" at my aunt's house. Unlikely Little Sister, Most Adored, I'd be no help unpacking, being the unorganized creature I am. Besides, my den in the basement had already been set up. All I needed was a couch, some blankets and my things and I was set. We didn't even need to move many of the boxes and there were all sorts of old heirlooms and things my ratpacking aunt never had the heart to throw away. In fact, the fact that there were so many old things down there made me quite happy. As did the lack of windows. I adore the old, and I am made incredibly sleepy by sunlight. A basement, aside from the fact that they tend to be cooler than the rest of the house, is my ideal environment. Especially since this one managed to be so dry. I would be out of the way down there, but Mommy feels that I'm antisocial and wants me out of the basement.

My aunt is not really my aunt, she's actually one of Mommy's cousins, but I've always called her an aunt anyways. Mommy was the baby of the family, the youngest of all her siblings, and her parents were in the younger end of their generation, too. Which meant that Mommy ended up with thirty year old cousins, of which Aunt Coleen was one. Aunt Coleen moved to Ohio after she got married, when Mommy was about seven. They sent each other letters for years. Which, I guess, is part of the reason she volunteered to station herself with Aunt Coleen. Another is that everyone else was in Florida with Grandma, who is in poor health, or the great aunts and uncles running about in New York, who will probably be dying soon, too.

A little while ago, Aunt Coleen's husband died. And recently she's been ill. She never had children, so there was nobody to watch her. Mommy wouldn't stand for this, so here I am until Coleen dies. Since we don't have a precise date for that, Mommy enrolled us in the school here, and we'll be staying until the end of the semester in which Coleen dies.

I don't mean to sound malicious, but that's how things stand. We'll be going back to New England the moment her funeral is taken care of, her house is sold and we get report cards. It's a pity, too. I seem to always make friends with old ladies, and it always seems that I'll go to see one and a grandchild or nursing home attendant will be there telling me that my friend has died since my last visit. It's already happened four times. And now I've gone and found myself greatly attached to a dying aunt.

I blame the fact that I usually end up having more in common with them, and some of the quieter old men, than I do people my own age. It's really rather pathetic. It was a bit of a joke among some of my classmates, apparently I'm already an old cat lady. Pity there isn't a club for that. I'd fit right in. And, according to Mommy, there doesn't seem to be a knitting club either. I guess my best option is Glee club. It won't be anything like the Chorale I was in before, which, as you may have guessed, was riddled with people in their 50's and up. There were young members, yes, but none of them were teenagers. All of the Glee club will be teenagers. And, although I dread it, I'm going to have to at least try to join to please Mommy. And I guess it'll give me a greater variety of songs to burst into. Maybe something other people might actually know. Because singing a duet from the sixties, once a hit, now in oblivion, by yourself is not only difficult, but it gets lonely.

***

The new guidance counselor was amused when the girl curtsied to him, lifting the skirt high enough for the length of a pair of dinged-up boots and a bit of some sort of leggings on a bent knee to be exposed, before seating herself across the desk from the him.

"So, Pam, how was your first day? Any problems, questions, concerns?" he asked, a standard set of questions to kids enrolled mid-year.

"It was lovely. My teachers seem very nice. I got lost a few times, but I'm always lost, so it was nothing to be bothered by. I got there though. Only lost a few cookies in the process."

"You threw up?" He asked.

"What? Oh. No, I mean that I gave a cookie to everybody I asked for directions. I gave away a good eight cookies. Want one?" Pamela, reached into the Bag of Endless Sugar Coma. And pulled out a cookie. To be polite, the guidance counselor grabbed it with a tissue. He wrapped it up in the tissue and put it on the edge of his desk.

Pamela was standing up to leave when she gasped and plopped back down. "What's wrong?"

"I just remembered to ask you something. Who runs the Glee club?"

The guidance counselor answered, "Mr. Shuester. He…"

"Oh, he's my Spanish teacher." The girl then laughed hysterically.

He was alarmed. What about Shuester could possibly be so funny? "What is it?"

"It's just, ha, yesterday I expressed the, hehehe, need to bu-u-u-urst into song… To the GLEE CLUB TEACHER! That's irony, right there." Pamela giggled.

The laughter subsided. "Well, thank you for seeing me before school, I'd hate for it to have inconvenienced you, but I'm paranoid that if I miss class it'll be something important." She got up again.

"It's not a problem." He replied, almost perfunctorily. Pamela smiled, as sweet as that cookie on his desk probably was.

"Well, thanks anyway. Have a nice day." The girl said, curtsying again before swinging her backpack up onto her shoulders and walking out of the room.

The guidance counselor was left with the impression that the girl would probably end up slushied soon.

***

After what happened yesterday, he expected to have to chase her down, but his new student came to him after class without prompting.

"Are you feeling any better?"

"Yes, I'm fine. That was just that I was afraid I was going to be late for class. I've got paranoid tendencies, don't mind me. May I join Glee Club?"

"What?" Will was slightly taken aback. Where did that come from?

"May. I. Join. Glee club?"

"You'll need to audition." Will said.

"When?"

"The next practice is Thursday, sometime before that, then." Pamela nodded.

***

I auditioned during lunch the next day. Nothing of consequence, I sang a song about wilting roses and Cupid, using words like "impetuous" and "pall", it was fun. I sang it a couple more times, in various accents and voice parts. Mostly because I get a kick out of stuff like that. Tenor-me was quite proud of himself(until Soprano ripped out his moustache in a fit of rage. He hid in the Corner of Shame after that). And I guess Mr. Shuester liked some of it, so I'm in the club. Sounds like fun.

***Author's note:***

Sorry about the fact this is so heavily about Pamela right now. It won't be soon enough, it won't be long until she is reduced to a plot device. Originally I had Suzy Pepper in that particular role, but a couple of planned scenes weren't working out, so I had to make someone up. She is supposed to be crazy, if Pepper is the school loony, then I needed an ex-school loony for this to work and stay as close to the original idea as possible. So, right now I'm just trying to make her a believable loony character, with a believable reason to have suddenly materialized in the world of Glee, because the show didn't already do it for me. For the most part, the things I've written about her are to aid in explanation to later bits Expect a Suzy meets Pamela scene later. And slamming Puck into a locker? I figured he deserved a taste of his own medicine. Kurt and Finn will both be in the next chapter. Be glad.


	2. A Slice of Revelation Pie

I, for the most part, watched the first rehearsal I attended. I realized that my joining made an odd number. So I decided that, unless they got more members, I would be the official stand-in. I didn't want to make waves, nor did I want someone to be left out whenever the choreography required pairing up, Mr. Shuester agreed. I would watch them, learn the choreography, and songs, and if someone were missing then I would take their place. It takes a bit more practice, but I've not much else to do(considering all time that is spent waiting for a cake to bake, and that after I've knitted for too long my fingers start to hurt), I can handle it. Apparently, they almost had a problem at sectionals because someone was missing for the beginning and their replacement wasn't even going to sing, there was also something about coming up with their songs at last minute, I don't know the details. I can manage alright just about anywhere, so it wasn't a problem.

The initial reaction to me was one of confusion. Apparently the minimum number of members needed were twelve, which I guess they already had. That was most of them at least. One kid said something along the lines of "It's that Psycho-Chick!" I laughed at that. I couldn't help it. Mr. Shuester rationalized it to them, and they didn't seem to mind. It just meant they got a spare singer who's guaranteed not to steal their solos.(Because why give an alternate a solo when they won't be used elsewhere? Not the mention, if she's not there then who will sing her solo?) I was informed that there were occasional storm outs, and it's always good to have someone to continue practice with when they are left one short.

After that they wanted to know if I could sing. So I sang. I think that frightened them. Whether it was because they didn't think I was very good(which I doubt, since everyone in the East seemed to think otherwise), or because they were in shock that I could manage scary high notes, straight into singing like a boy.(Octave jumping being one of my only special talents, I make voices when appropriate, boy-voice(product of Tenor-me) is one of them. As is Sick-as-a-dog, New-York-accent, Opera-diva-of-death(played by Soprano), Beatle-voice(also known as boy-voice with Liverpool accent) and variants. They're fun.

The kid, Puck, doesn't very much like me. I don't particularly like him either. I've come to realize that he's rather mean. I don't mind, really, any comment he makes about me. To be honest, I love being made fun of. People can say some funny things when making fun of others. And I enjoy the humor as much as anybody. So I like to give him cookies when he comes up with something funny.

Rachael is very bossy and a bit too loud for my tastes. She seems nice though. She sings well, too. There is something about her voice I don't like, I can't quite place my finger on it. I think it's how breathy it sounds. It's still good singing, nonetheless, She told me about her star metaphor. I think it's charming. I gave her a brownie once.

The first problem I have concerning replacing people in the choreography is Artie. He's in a wheelchair, and everything is slightly modified for him. I've been given permission to practice use of wheelchairs in one they still had from a song they were going to do with them. I doubt I'll ever be over the fear that I'll somehow manage to tip over and kill myself, but after a while I should figure it out. I don't know how he does it. I like Artie, he's a total hepcat. He likes cupcakes, too, which is always good.

Quinn, as I took a while to figure out, is pregnant. I didn't figure it out until I was told about why there was a person missing at Sectionals(I also learned that Puck was the dad. Kind of in shock.), but I'm a little slow concerning abnormalities in body shape, such as missing limbs and baby-bumps, I'm inclined to stare at people's faces, so unless it's particularly swishy and attention-grabbing or I'm supposed to be looking for it, I tend to miss everything from the neck down. She seems nice enough. I really don't know her that well, but she seems to appreciate anything I give her. She was a bit thrown off by the baked potato, but I saw her eating it later, so I'm happy.

From what I can gather, the scarily tall kid, Finn, thought he was the father and glares at Puck a lot. He also seems really upset when looking at Quinn. Poor dear. He's a bit of an oaf, but it's endearing. I think that the only way he could possibly manage that is the fact he is also a sweetheart. He kind of reminds me of my Daddy, who stayed in New England, with my little brother. My parents are divorced, so it only seemed fair he get one of us through the Ohio ordeal. The point is, my Daddy is a gigantic teddy bear, whom I adore. If I still like my Daddy and I'm a fifteen year old who has no use for his money, then clearly he did something right. I have no doubts that, had he actually been the father, Finn's kid would have liked him. I usually bring him ice cream early into the day, my Daddy loves ice cream, and if it isn't early, it'll melt.

Tina is very quiet, but if I pay attention, I can pick her out, vocally. I think she sounds rather lovely. Singing or not. I could care less about her stutter, she can still talk at least, and, well, the longer it takes to say something, the longer I can listen to her. And she makes happy noises when you give her pudding.

I don't know very much about Matt or Mike, I blame the fact that everybody else seems to talk louder, or, like Tina, grab my attention by being too quiet, so I never really can hear them. I like to feed them all the same, growing boys and all that. They also play sports, so I like to think that they need the extra food.

I dislike what I've seen of Santana. It's not one of my instant, Irrational Dislikes, either. She is MEAN, and I don't care for her at all. I give my cookies in hope that she takes them and prove me wrong, but she refuses to eat them. Claims they're poisoned or some such bunkum. Where'd she hear that?

I'm fond of Brittany. She's a sweet girl. Denser than water in the bathysphere, but a nice kid with a healthy sweet tooth. It's because she spends so much time with Santana that I have hope my dislike will pass.

Mercedes makes me smile. I'm not sure why, but her love of the spotlight, how she sings, the fact she likes chocolate and her general attitude makes me grin something awful, as you can imagine, my cheeks hurt just thinking about her.

If I had to pick a favorite, though, it would be, not Mercedes, but Kurt. I'm not sure why either, he's just the sort of kid I want to bake a pie. I don't even like most forms of pie, but he makes me want to make it. I also love words, play with dictionaries when I can, and Kurt's vocabulary makes me melt into a happy puddle of logophilic bliss. I like the way he's always fussing over his hair, too. Kurt's one of my Irrational Likes. A person who I am inclined to enjoy the company of, even if they should, sometimes, be irking me. He is one of the precious few who, no matter what they do, I'll still be devoted to.

I met a girl in first grade who was my first and only other Irrational Like. As it happens, she seemed to like me too, and was my first, and only, best friend. No one else measured up. She spent time with other friends, and I didn't mind. She went to a different school, made best friends with other people, and I missed her something terrible, but no matter how she changed, or how she viewed me in relation to other people she met, or to which ridiculously far away state she moved, I'll still like her as much as I did in first grade. She was the only person for which I ever made a pie. It was pumpkin. Clearly, my wanting to make Kurt a pie means that even if I don't act on attempting to befriend him, I'm going to end up practically worshipping him.

It's the way I function, and Heaven forbid I ignore my Irrational Likings.

***

The new girl, the one with the truly unfortunate wardrobe of a 1940's Eskimo, has been trying to shove cherry pie down Kurt's throat since the day after the first rehearsal she attended, and by now, the following Tuesday, Kurt is getting sick of it.

"I don't want your pie!" Kurt shouted, past the vapors from the fresh pie being held level to his chin, to the girl offering it.

Her eyes widened and she looked vaguely affronted. "Why not?" She asked, in a tone of voice reminiscent of a toddler attempting to figure out if the atrocities just spoken of could possibly be true.

"I'm trying to watch my weight, for one, and pie not going to help. And for another, if no one else has had a slice then how am I supposed to know it's any good? I can't waste my calorie count on a pie that might not even be good." Kurt said. Pamela pouted.

"I made it for you though, if I let someone else eat it before I gave it to you, then it would be a terrible gift that wouldn't be worthy. I made a test-pie before any of the pies I made you. Mommy liked it, and I used the same sort of ingredients, she said it was very filling, which is good! If a small slice of pie can hold you over longer than a large salad and tastes better, then it means less food you'll be eating in the time between when the salad and the pie no longer keep you're intestines busy and the less frequently you'll be hungry and taking in more calories. I eat cheesecake and sweets all the time, and I'm, though it's hard to tell though all the clothes, a scrawny girl! It's the same sort of thing with milk, people think that you're better off with four glasses of skim milk than of whole, but if you're always drinking whole milk, you have less room for other foods than if you drink skim milk. Then you get hungry, and as a result, eat more, and end up fat because you drank something you thought would keep you skinny! Whole milk is the best there is, it actually tastes like milk, and not watery cheese! I HATE cheese." She raved. The girl was getting all worked up over milk. Kurt was alarmed. He took note of the whole milk theory, though, and decided to try seeing if it was true at a later date. Anything to ensure that those skinny jeans were kept true to their name.

With reluctance, Kurt took the proffered pie. Pamela squealed and whipped out a plastic fork of dubious origin. Kurt could only assume it was from the same bag that the baked goods kept coming from. He saw her open the bag and after reaching her hands in and making some curious arm moments she withdrew them, one holding an ice cream scoop of vanilla. Kurt was beginning to wonder if Pamela was some sort of spawn of Mary Poppins and a Keebler elf, what with the magic bag of baked goods. And the genetic instability would explain the lunacy. "Do you want ice cream with it? I know some people like it with their pie, so…"

"No, thank you. If it drips I'll ruin my new jacket." Kurt said, as he stabbed the pie's crust and brought the bit to his mouth to taste, careful to catch any crumbs.

It was pretty good. Kurt noticed that Pamela was beaming. She giggled a bit before saying "Well, enjoy the pie, I've got to get the ice cream to Finn before it all melts."

Kurt gulped. "M-may I have a little ice cream, then?"

Pamela appeared quizzical, but doled out the ice cream, still on the scoop, all the same before rushing of to where, presumably, she expected to find Finn.

He looked down at _his_ pie. With _Finn's_ ice cream on it. He decided he was one of those people who like pie with ice cream.

***

On Friday morning, Finn had gotten a small tub of ice cream from Pam. He really liked it. He was psyched for Monday, and sure enough, Pam had more, this time homemade, ice cream for him. The stuff was good, even if there was less of it. This time, Pam wasn't there with his ice cream when he got to his locker. He was mildly upset. He waited a few minutes. He talked to some friends.(Namely Artie and Brittany) He waited a little bit more.

Sure enough, she arrived, with a small carton of ice cream, and an ice cream scoop. He saw that some of it was gone, but dug in anyways. She was grinning.

"I'm sorry there was less ice cream than there should have been, but I went to give Kurt a pie, you know, the ones I still have when I give you ice cream, but he actually took it this time, and I just realized that he might want some ice cream on it, and, because it would be impolite to not at least offer it since I had some, I gave it to him." She said. Finn noticed that she goes ages between breaths and talks fast.

"I like ice cream on pie. It's cool, I wouldn't want to deny someone of it either." Finn said. She laughed. It sounded sort of creepy. Like one of those witches laughs.

Finn thinks that's why no one has slushied Pam yet. She does things, like talking to fire extinguishers and rants about dead moles and going around telling people about the dates of the next six full moons, with a look of unhinged adoration, that seems to scare people off. He wishes that respect of sport stars was as strong a security as being so strange that people are afraid that doing you wrong will result in being viciously attacked by an army of stray cats. A theory he started hearing Monday, after she was seen being followed by them on her way home from school on Friday. Finn thinks that she just offered them some of her food and they flocked. Cats do that.

Pam's cool. Finn thinks it's not fair how many people won't eat a cookie she gives them because they think she did something to them. Finn wishes more people went around giving away free food. That would be awesome.

Finn ate his ice cream, Pam standing next to him, smiling. She says she stays there because her first class is nearby and she doesn't feel like standing by herself. Finn would agree. Before he'd be with Quinn, or even Puck, or another jock before class. Now most jocks won't talk to him because of Glee club and he isn't willingly on speaking terms with either Quinn or Puck. He'd see other Glee kids sometimes, but they've got places to be so, for the most part, he'd wait alone, and it wasn't fun. So he's glad they can keep each other company.

Pam waved as Kurt appeared at the end of the hallway, a mostly uneaten pie in hand. "How is it?" She asked as he neared.

"It's good, but you better not be lying about the whole milk thing." He replied. Finn thought the pie looks yummy. The ice cream had melted a lot, and it soaked into the crust and pooled into where the pie had been excavated with a fork.

"Can I have some?" Finn asked them. Kurt, because it's his pie now, and Pam, because she might have not wanted him to share the pie.

Pam pulled out another fork after hearing Kurt say he didn't mind.

Finn took the fork and ate some pie. It tasted good.

***

I'm beginning to think wonder about Kurt. He's watching Finn eat some of his pie and looks fairly mesmerized. I'm sure that ice cream and pie are good, but you'd think he'd channel love of pie by eating it, not watching it be eaten. He looks to be moonily moonstruck, and I do doubt it's the pie. I can't complain that he isn't eating it himself, either, he at least took it after all, and can do just about anything he wants with it now.

I may be utterly insane, but I think Kurt might like Finn. It would explain his current bizarre behavior, and the fact he changed his mind about wanting ice cream. It's not much to go by, but rest assured, he will be cornered about it.

I like making people happy. Especially my Irrationally Liked. If Kurt wants Finn, which I'm increasingly suspicious he does, then, by Jove, I'll make sure he gets him!

***Author's Note***

Yep. Pamela is all about shoving food in people's faces, is already capable of being a cat-lady, and is plotting something. I hope I did Kurt and Finn both justice. I'm not that great with writing in-character-Glee. This is my first attempt, but any improvements would be welcome. Considering they are still new to Pamela and the like, I figure that they'd be alarmed. They'll act more naturally when they realize that, no, the scary bag is not magic. It's just got lots of pockets. Finn, I figured, would just roll with it, so I think I've got him sounding as close to Finn-like as I possibly can. Next chapter- The cornering and general plan outline, which is subject to change as other characters interfere and glitches are found.


	3. Baked Potato for the Soul

First thing first, I had to do my research. I have a tendency to come up with ridiculous theories, and I didn't want to go and have an utterly incorrect premise that would lead to all sorts of planning and scheming that doesn't need to be done. It would be an utter waste of time.

So, I paid the usual amount of attention to Kurt, and an additional amount of attention to his interactions with Finn. I am leaning towards being accurate at the moment. The interactions, on their own, wouldn't have been much proof in my favor. It was as soon as Finn started to leave, however, that Kurt would start looking nauseously lovesick.

I think that's a funny word- lovesick. It actually prompted a short story about a guy with smallpox who thought he was in love. Or that was in love and thought he had smallpox. Because I wasn't sure which disease his symptoms most fit, I decided he was in love, and had gotten smallpox from the girl he fell in love with. According to my logic, then, Kurt is looking to be in the early stages of smallpox. At this point, I wish Finn would catch it on his own, because I don't have a clue as to how to make the small pox, or love, vaccine so to give it to Kurt. It's better to be sick with company, and even better to be sick with a person of your choosing. I happen to know I'm better at taking care of the sick than being sick. I make bad company, sleep the whole time.

I've also paid closer attention to Finn and I can see that he is fond. In many ways is he fond. He is fond of fond, rightfully so, because cream(or custard) is delicious with or without pureed fruit. He is fond in the sense that he's a bit of a fool, which can be used to my advantage, should I take the route of subterfuge. He is fond of Kurt, too. They talk fairly often. Finn does Kurt favors, like getting things that are to high for anybody else to reach for him, or that story Kurt told me about how Finn helped him join the football team(I laughed for ages at the mental pictures). Finn likes talking to Kurt, and listens to him. I know because he sometimes repeats phrases he heard from Kurt in casual conversation.

I deemed my theory correct. Now- to confront Kurt, see if he'll accept my help and to concoct a plan that plays to Finn's fondness.

***

It was before school on Friday morning when Pamela approached Kurt, no pie to be seen, and dragged him by the elbow across the school to what appeared to be a teacher's office and closed the door behind them.

"I want to know whether or not you view Finn in a manner that may be described as romantic, non-platonic, or amorous." Kurt felt his heart pump a pint of adrenaline in one go. He never wants to feel that again.

"Excuse me?" Kurt decided that would suffice. Even a lunatic like Pamela should know that such a statement isn't a particularly well known greeting. Or perhaps he misheard, and she was spouting sort of Swedish phrase. He doubted it.

She repeated it verbatim, not a freak verbal accident then.

"Why? If I do, then what would it have to do with you?" An iffy attempt to seem impartial and curious, as opposed to having just felt the kind of panic that leads to painful adrenaline rushes, but that particular hormone is making it hard to not to be jumpy, which has the potential to destroy any attempt to seem calm.

Pamela knew. She had to have. Otherwise her initial reaction would not have been that smile. A Cheshire cat grin. She had Kurt cornered and they both knew it.

"Well, if you want anything, I'll do my best to help you get it. I want you happy. I'll get you anything you are willing to ask for. _If_ you fancy Finn, I would be more than happy to aid in any pursuit in which you may partake. It's hard to give people away, so helping is the best I can do." The eyes were manic. The smile had grown. Kurt wasn't sure whether to be alarmed or relieved. He was sick of being alarmed, so he settled for startled relief.

"All of the above, then." Pamela's eyes widened, and she looked confused. "To the first part. Amorous, romantic and with unadulterated adoration." Kurt clarified.

Pamela laughed. "I never said that one!" She hopped a bit, her skirts were sent into a flurry of mirthful swishing. Kurt wasn't even aware that was possible. He's seen tons of swishing before, but it never seemed to be laughing. He hopes insanity isn't contagious.

"Oh, you know what I'm talking about." Kurt scoffed.

"I do. So, have you any pre-existing plans?" She leaned forward confidentially.

"What?" Kurt raised an eyebrow.

"Well, you've got to pick a method by which to woo at some point."

"I'm working on one." Kurt stated. "He was set up to be dissatisfied with Quinn ever since she got pregnant, even before he found out the paternity. I would be there, a shoulder on which to cry when he finally realized it. Well, the discovery that Puck was the father throw the monkey wrench into my plan. He stormed out and wouldn't communicate with any of us until the miracle at Sectionals. Afterwards we had to convince him that the reason Rachel was the only one willing to tell him about it was he know what would happen to him if we did and didn't want to be the one to set off any emotional bombs. He forgave us." Kurt had no clue why he just shared so much information with a girl he barely knew. He chalked it up to the fact she's already guessed it, so he can't hide what he has reason to believe she's figured out. It helps that she adores him, if the pies were any indication, so she wouldn't think less of him.

"So he didn't end up doing what you intended."

"Yes."

"Well, that's because you left too much up to chance. Finn's a fool, and your plan wasn't fool proofed. You expected sadness. What if he ended up angry with her or the drifting apart was gradual enough for him to be left only a bit upset? Add in some additional feelings, like betrayal, resentment, humiliation, and you've got all of the ingredients for your emotional a-bomb, and if you tried fixing it you'd get radiation sickness. You need a plan with emotional conditions and reactions clearly outlined, and ideas set in place ahead of time, subconsciously, for Finn, to act upon when confronted with a catalyst to go to you. Leave no room for error, and if it's unavoidable, have a reliable means by which to correct it." At some point Kurt was vaguely reminded of Science. Homeostasis, perhaps?

"Don't tell me that you've played Cupid before."

"Never in my life have I masqueraded as an arching infant."

"Good to know." Kurt was glad for a chance at sarcasm. Pamela leaves little opportunity for it. The comment seemed to distress her.

"I just want to help you get what you want."

"Why?'

"I've got no clue, but you're getting it anyways. I don't know much about you, but I want to make you happy. If getting you pie won't do it, then maybe helping you get Finn will."

"And you don't mind?"

"Mind what?"

"That Finn and I are both boys."

"Why should I? That's practically a good thing!"

"How do you figure that?"

" Well, for one, it's a good way to curve population growth, since nothing else seems to stop us. We've got vaccines and treatments for all sorts of things that could have killed us before. We aren't being killed by wild, hungry, animals as often because all of the man-eaters end up euthanized, or we've made them endangered species. The only way to bring us down nowadays is to fight to the death and love someone with whom there can be no zygote, or nobody at all. Makes sense that when I think there are too many humans that I'd condone one of them. Especially since one ends up with more adopted orphans than children who'll be orphaned."

Kurt looked at Pamela with a mixture of horror and amusement. Then she started talking again.

"Also, I don't think Finn can handle the hassle of girls. We're simply far too much drama and too easily impregnated. I've heard so many stories since I got here that make me want to hug that poor kid. I don't want to wish a teenaged girl upon anybody. They're far easier to be friends with before puberty and after menopause, estrogen drives people crazy. It's the best explanation I've got. I'm glad you've got testosterone, really I am. Unless driven to insanity by extreme circumstances, it means you're far more sane than a girl would be. That's the sort of thing Finn, I expect, would need. Bless you and your hormones, you couldn't make things easier if you tried." When Kurt had said that Finn's problem was girls, he had said it because he thought girls were problems in general, so that had to be the source of Finn's problem, too. He was surprised that there were girls out there who thought the same. But, then again, Pamela gives off the air of a batty old lady, knee-deep in eccentric behavior and owning two dozen cats. And dresses like one too. Hardly the teenaged girl that her unwrinkled face and occasional excited squeaking would suggest.

"It wouldn't work." Kurt stated. The "girls are the problem" angle didn't work the first time, probably never will.

"Well, why not?"

"Finn's straight." A sad truth, in Kurt's opinion, but it makes this entire line of conversation moot, so it must be said.

"So?"

"_So_, it's been established that I'm not a girl."

"Doesn't matter. He wants a girl, yes, but a girl would be detrimental to his health. If we can get him to stop reaching for the 1% and go for the whole milk, he'll realize what he's missing."

"Why does it always go back to milk with you?" Seriously, the girl is obsessed or something. It's got to be the number one topic that she'll rant about.

"Because whole milk is quite possibly the greatest thing ever, and doesn't get enough credit. Like population controls. They're things that people don't realize they need. We get around population controls, we extract the whole from the milk. If we can get Finn to just realize that it's alright to drink it, or to not get a small pox vaccination, then, rest assured, he'll find that he's better off for it." Kurt couldn't see what small pox had to do with anything, but he decided not to question her logic, because, in a way, she made sense.

"Then what do you say we do about it?" Kurt said. The realization that, yes, she made sense. That, yes, if done right Finn could be made to see that. That with help from someone whose logic can't be questioned, just because hers was a sort of crazy that seemed smart, he could convince Finn of anything.

"We're getting ahead of ourselves. First we've got to ensure that you're a good enough friend to him. Then, I think I'll have to be in charge of this part, ease him into the idea that girls are no fun. Then we've got to bring the idea of being with you into the realm of possibility, for him. If subtly won't work there, I'm thinking subterfuge, because that's the bit that would probably need it most, and I never get to have fun with deception. After then would be about getting him to act on whatever it is we get in his head during the subt-something-ing. That'll probably be all you, unless he's reluctant, even after all the ground work, to do something, then I might interfere. Hopefully the rest will be smooth sailing."

"How did you come up with that?" To Kurt, it seemed like decent framework, that if built upon right could definitely do something, but it was hardly the foolproof thought he was told to strive for.

"I didn't have much homework last night, ended up thinking about it for a while. It ought to work, even if it's rough now. I know it will, if perfectionism, paranoia and the tendency to psychoanalyze are good for anything, it's plots like these. If you let me help you, beyond the sharing of this plan, that is, I promise that I'll do everything I can to guarantee your success."

"Thank you."

"If it doesn't work, though, I've got a pen pal with access to the Chunnel."

"Go on."

"Well, one of my friends, Doris, sweet lady, eighty years old, has this awesome accent, she and I talked about books back in…"

"And this relates to the Chunnel?"

"Oh, yes, sorry. Doris has a grandson in England, she set us up to be pen pals because she figured we'd get along. We actually do, nice kid, good with numbers. Sometimes he'll make a trip to France and get me something, and I'll make him a muffler and use the same box to ship it, I figure that you might…"

The door opened. So this was Mr. Shuester's office. Now that Kurt looked around, he could see the mattress tucked in the corner. The teacher viewed Kurt with mild surprise.

"I finished early. I hope I did alright. I…" Mr. Shuester silenced her and turned to a shelf. He ran a finger over it and inspected the results.

"You did fine. Thanks. The dust was making it hard to, well, thanks for dusting. It looks good."

"You're welcome, I like dusting. I was happy to. So, how was breakfast?"

***

Quinn was growing so used to being pitied. She got kicked off the Cheerios, poor thing! She's pregnant, oh, what a shame! Her boyfriend dumped her, how tragic! She's so used to it, she can't even bother to be sick of it. They don't get it. They strive to show her the understand and care, they're really just paying their respects like those hypocrite Pharisees at the temple. It's for show to prove they're good people who care about idiots who go and do things they shouldn't and end up pregnant.

There are all sorts of rumors flying around about it, especially after she and Finn broke up. There are people who believe the more accurate tales, and treat her like dirt. She even prefers that to pity. At least they're being honest.

The Glee Club supports her, cares for her, even though they all know about the mistake she made, and all the drama involved. Even Finn, when forced to interact with her, still shows concern over the baby.

When the Glee Club got an extra member, Quinn expected her to pity her, to hate her, to only talk about the baby. She didn't. In fact, she didn't even notice it at first. She treated her like anybody else.

Quinn was thrown off by the first gift, who in their right minds go about giving away a baked potato? She got hungry later, and ate it, anyways. Turns out, the new kid hands out food to just about anyone she thinks to do so for. Which is good for when a fetus is taking in a portion of all your nutrients and you find yourself needing to eat more to stave off hunger.

When, on Wednesday, Quinn found a small quantity of ginger snaps in a bag wrapped up in a small scarf sitting on her seat for her first class, she had suspicions as to the donor. They were confirmed when, before Glee Club started, a shawl was set around her shoulders.

"I started working on it ages ago. I figured you'd like it, so I finished it during lunch. Enjoy!" No 'use it for the baby!' or 'here, to warm the pathetic teenaged mother-to-be'. Just a 'hey! Thought you'd like this!', it felt nice.

When the girl, Pamela, did take notice of the baby-bump, it was usually with concern. Quinn would find herself, in such situations, led to a seat and asked about her back, and/or being fed carrots. She started to feel like one of the Glee kids, to Quinn. Somebody to lean on.

Quinn, despite her own expectations, rather likes Pamela. And, as Pamela had hoped, she likes the shawl, too.

***

Sorry it's been so long. I've no excuse. The best I can say is that I was having a hard time with making the plotting scene somewhat possible. Irony? While writing this chapter an actual aunt of mine died. Unlike "is used to death and views it as natural and unavoidable" Pamela, I cried like a baby. Quinn's bit was a bit more about opinions on Pamela, mostly because I feel it important that, since everybody seems to have an opinion, be it expressed or not, about the other characters. I figure that views on her have to be noted. I've already got Puck and Finn, and Kurt's is changing slightly as I go, but there. Hope it's worth the wait.


	4. Hydrophobia and Hummels

I once met an old man who had lived all over Europe. He said that, if you live in one place for long enough, everybody starts looking the same. He lived in Ireland for 12 years. He told me that mine was the exact face of Ireland. I was very proud. I wish my freckles were, too, but I don't go out in the sun often enough for them to be of use. So, I've simply got a white, blank canvas for skin, because the sun can't paint on any freckles or sunburn through a wall and the clothes I wear while out.

One day Kurt decided that it was unwise to plot in school, where anybody could be anywhere, listening. He also says that he can't stand owing somebody as badly dressed as I anything, and now he does because I've gone and made myself his pet, who'll fetch magazines, beverages and Finns(or at least try to) for him. I told him that I was happy to serve, because I was. He won't have any of it. I think it's an issue of pride.

A lot of males have an issue with pride, hate having help because they want to prove they can take care of themselves. A lot of elderly people do too, as do I, to an extent. The elderly do because they used to not need the help and are frustrated that they do now. I do because if someone's helping me then they're wasting the time on me that they could be using on themselves or somebody else. As far as I'm concerned, I'm not that important. If less people know about you, less people can mourn that you're gone. That's an advantage of old friends. The odds are that you'll outlive them and they won't have to worry about when you die. I think my pride problem is where I'm placing it. That next to nobody will miss me when I die isn't a great thing to find pride in.

Kurt's pride is the reason I am at his house on a Wednesday afternoon. His intent is on teaching me how to dress to my strengths, or something like that. Then he promised we'd watch a movie.

I am terrified of Kurt's room. He's awesome, but I have an irrational phobia of cosmetic products, including, but not limited to, exfoliants, moisturizers, sunscreen, cover up, chapstick, and any sort of hair removal implements. There is all that and more in there. I don't mind his use of it, his splendor overcomes such things, but the isolated substances are horrifying. To my surprise I don't mind shaving cream though. Shaving, yes, the cream, no. I think it's because it reminds me of whipped cream, with which I am very comfortable. Razors, however, remind me of potato peelers, a potato's skin might as well be mine. I'm glad I don't grow facial hair, otherwise I'd probably end up butchering my face if I tried to get rid of it.

He has seated me in front of a mirror(and is letting me cling to his shaving cream), and is surveying me, I guess to figure out what the strengths I need to work with are. The only thing I can think of is that since I've got so little pigment I really should be allowed to wear whatever color I feel like.

"When was the last time you brushed your hair?"

"This morning."

"It's a mess. It look like some mangy lion's mane was cut off with garden shears and glued to a wig." Oh, Kurt, I am utterly in love with that comparison. I like wigs. And lions. And mange. And enjoy garden shears. 'Tis a pity you don't seem to.

"If you want, I'll pin it up, so you won't have to bother with it."

"Brush it first, I beg of you."

"Fine. I don't have a brush, though." I carry around hair pins, never know when I'll need to pick a lock. I got them from a pocket on the fourth layer from the outermost and placed them on my lap. Kurt found a brush I could use. I sniffed at it. Just plastic. No spray, no hair. I guess he doesn't use it. That's good, because I've got a mild fear of hair products, too.

I brushed my hair. Kurt yelled at me.

"Don't just yank it like that! It'll damage the hair." I was confused. It didn't feel like a yank. More of a tug than anything. I went to do it again, in a hopefully less yank-like motion, when Kurt snatched the brush from my hand and showed me the proper technique.

The "right" way takes far longer, and is far less pleasing to my scalp. I enjoy getting scratched, especially on the head, and around the ears. Mommy complains that I'm worse than a cat, in that regard. When I brush my hair I make a point of using the brush to scratch my head. Kurt's barely touching my scalp, and it's getting itchy from lack of attention.

"No!" Kurt admonished, hitting my hand away with the brush. It was sort of funny, but hurt, so I put my hand back around the shaving cream. It helped a bit.

My hair is long, thick, and according to Kurt, has potential to be an asset. How so? I have no clue. The most useful thing I can think of is braiding it and using it to choke an assailant. I won't question his thought process though.

I pinned it up, as promised. A big braided bun. Once my big mess of hair was taken care of, he set on fixing my bangs. Apparently, they were uneven and grouped together in peculiar places. I gave him permission to chop and comb as he pleased. I didn't see much of a difference when he finished, but what do I know?

We quarreled over my eyebrows. He claimed they needed to be thinned out, and I LIKE my eyebrows. If I weren't intended to have thick eyebrows, they'd be thin. If some liquid chemical got dumped over my head, then my thick eyebrows would catch the stuff before it got to my eyes and redirect the stuff. They could quite easily save my from blindness. Assuming the chemical is quickly washed away after the dumping, or does nothing externally but is harmful to your eyes. In the end, I won because my bangs make my eyebrows less visible, anyways.

For the most part, Kurt had little to say about my face. He voiced his surprise that it wasn't in worse condition, especially since my fear of skin care products was made obvious from the scream of terror I produced upon first seeing them. I have no clue why my skin doesn't seem to get blemishes easily either. Not even bug bites leave a mark.(Assuming that the bugs are actually biting, since it's hard to tell everywhere you've gotten bitten without the red bumps that ought to form and start itching, so to say "Hey! You've just been bitten by a bug!") I bet it's the power of baked goods. Flour conquers all, or something like that. His big concern was my eyes. Or rather, the fact that the skin around it makes me look like I haven't slept in three days. I don't think they'll go away with sleep, they're fairly permanent, so far as I'm aware. I'm always sleepy, to some degree, I think my face should reflect it. Thus, it makes sense that I refused the cream he offered.

***

Makeovers are far more fun with a willing, or at least somewhat willing participant. At least Rachel was easily manipulated into it. If Kurt needed one, he'd be willing to be made over for Finn any day. As it is, he doesn't, and Pamela seems to think she doesn't need one either.

Her grooming skills are minimal at best. She does nothing to take care of her face and can't even brush her hair right. Kurt believes it to be lucky genetics alone that keep her from being an acne ridden, frizzy haired mess. At least she can twist it around prettily. Kurt thinks he should have her keep it up, so he never have to see a tangled waste of great hair. The hair, itself, is really rather nice, if you look past the abuse she puts it through. You'd think she was trying to rip it out, the way she went about brushing it.

What's more, Pamela actually likes her baggy eyes and thick eyebrows. Kurt can't fix a flaw if the owner acknowledges and enjoys having it. It's more proof, to him, at least, that the girl is crazy.

Kurt appreciates that he ended up with the sort of crazy that can make things easier on him: For example, somewhere along the way the Witch Rumor came to be. Nobody's willing to slushie, or in any other way, shape or form, bully Pamela, because they're afraid she'll do something to them. The most common "somethings" appear to be poisonings, sicing demon cats on them, and impaling them with a knitting needle. As it happens, the school came to find early on that she was fond of Kurt, and the other members of Glee Club, which automatically decreased the amount of slushie facials and dumpster dives Kurt found himself having to endure. He's gone three days without having to change his clothes out of necessity, at school. It's nice to not need to spend so much time removing stains.

Pamela likes to carry heavy things, carries around every book, notebook, and sundry items in her backpack and refuses to use her locker. Yet, despite the load, she still will carry things for Kurt(notebooks and the like), and has granted him use of her locker. Useful, since it's right by his math class.

She brings him things. Kurt has long since forbidden forcing her sugary treats on him, but, if he wants, say, coffee, she'll get some for him. Or if he left something somewhere, she'll go get it. The fact that she walks at about three times the recommended pace means that she have recovered whatever he needed by the time he reaches his destination.

Now she's trying to help he get Finn, too.

Somewhere along the line, Pamela did one too many things for Kurt to take receiving it without guilt. He didn't like her as much as Mercedes, Tina, or even Brittany, but she obviously wanted only the best of things for him. She did make things easier on him.

Kurt decided it was only fair that the girl who dotes on him got something out of it. So he planned to help her with her appearance, because not only would it make her more bearable, but it would be something he could do well. He realized she was adverse to half of the things he had planned after he asked her to be his "project", and figured, that for part of the time he allotted to actually discussing the plan, he'd treat her to a movie instead.

At the moment, after a seminar on hair brushing, and a lesson in skin care, he is having a problem figuring out what sort of clothing to recommend. Usually, when devising a way to best utilize a person's body to look desirable, you've got to have a rough idea of what you're working with. Kurt has no clue what lurks under the bulky mass of fabric.

Pamela's reservations don't seem to be about Kurt, as he first thought. She asked about if there were any windows or doors to the room other than the door we used to get in. There weren't. She asked if there was a history of animals getting down here without any conceivable reason as to how. There weren't.

"Why do you think I wear so much?" Pamela asked. She clutched Kurt's shaving cream for dear life.

"I thought you were cold."

She laughed before responding, "That, too. But ultimately? There's no need for the skirts if it's a heating thing. Pants work well."

True. Kurt couldn't think of much else it could be.

"I'll be honest. My greatest fear is contracting rabies." He was skeptical.

Pamela looked around carefully, before releasing the shaving cream and unwrapping her scarves from there loose position around her neck. There were three. She placed them on the corner of his bed. Then she removed her bag of Sugary evil. She started taking off her jacket. Kurt felt slightly sick upon seeing another one under it. It's hardly the weather for one winter jacket, let alone two.

"A rabid animal can come out of nowhere. You may not see it coming until it's teeth are in your leg. I can't let it come to that." Pamela said, removing the second jacket. Oh, look, a sweater. It's thick. It looks to be wool, probably hand-knit.

"Now, I've never been bitten by one, and I've been vaccinated and all, but I can't trust medicine, never seems to do anything. So I've made myself a shield thick enough that even the largest rabid dog wouldn't be able to bite through it." She said, before slipping the sweater up over her head. There was a fleece sweatshirt underneath. It was on backwards. Kurt nearly choked on the need to make a jab at it.

"I figure the best way to avoid rabies is to make yourself unreachable. I mean it when I say a rabid animal can come from anywhere, if a moose can show up in an emergency room, then a hydrophobic fox can do the same thing." She reached behind and unzipped the sweatshirt, pulling it off and unto the accumulating pile on Kurt's bed. There was a correctly positioned one under it. She unzipped it and shrugged it off.

"The skirts, aside from being fun, and swishy, make it hard for a smaller rabid animal to aim. It'll make for difficulty finding my leg, and if it's wrong the first time, it'll be confused for long enough for me to get it with this." Pamela pulled a large pointy object(the looked suspiciously like a knitting needle) from the waistline of the outermost skirt and laid it atop the pile of shed clothes. Then took off the skirt. There were more. She removed them as well. Four ankle length, two shorter. She must have lots of practice, because Pamela has curtsied to him before, and he didn't even know about the underskirts. Then she took off the boots. There were fuzzy socks. Kurt didn't want to know how many.

Pamela took off another two shirts and what looked like snow pants, corduroy overalls, and some loose sweatpants before reaching anything tight. Then she removed scarves that had been wrapped around her torso and a shirt underneath that.(Flannel) There were still probably three layers left on the top, one of which was a hideously out-of-date dress. There was a sizable bump on her stomach, Kurt had a brief flash of panic before he reached under her clothes and pulled out a first aid kit. "It's in case something else happens. I've got tons of stuff like that, flash lights, matches, all sort of things."

Kurt had watched the shedding with morbid fascination, now that it was over, he looked to the pile of discarded clothes, and Pamela's provisions hidden in the pockets, was huge. He has reason to believe it weighs as much as she does. He's slightly in awe. If Pamela can still walk fast, and wears all that, and carries her backpack, Kurt thinks she's quite possibly the strongest girl ever. Which made it slightly unbelievable that, when he finally looked at Pamela, she was not ridiculously muscle-bound.

Pamela's earlier assessment of being a "scrawny girl" was fairly accurate. Kurt originally assumed that the constant baked goods was to blame for the thickness of leg he had seen prior. Not layering. After the discovery of her daily cargo, he expected to see some muscle mass, at least. Hardly. She looked like her bones were too big for her, that made her look malnourished, but other than that, she had a healthy amount of mass. Pamela started to laugh.

***

Poor Kurt looked like he'd just found a tarantula on his shoulder, or something. It's hilarious.

He completely forgot why I had to disarm myself. He asked questions about how much my clothes weigh. If I had to guess, I'd say more than my baked good bag, and less than what a wealthy woman of the Elizabethan era would have worn. He then asked how much I can lift. Apparently he thinks that wearing heavy clothes make you stronger. Honestly, I don't really notice the weight. So I doubt it. The only thing that could possibly make me stronger than a normal person is my love of hauling things, wood, backpacks, bricks, just about anything.

Eventually he told me to, in the case I can be sure I'm in a rabies-safe environment, wear stuff that works with my shoulders, or something. He says to wear blues, because-evidently- it would "bring out your eyes". I've got no clue how that's supposed to work. He also says I'd do well with light colors, and white makes me look less pale, by contrast. He told me to keep tight at the waist, but permission to keep it loose elsewhere. I guess he isn't sure what to do about the boniness. According to Mommy, it makes me very pointy. I'm constantly sticking her in the side when I try to hug her.

I put some of my clothes back on because I was cold, and decided that I was safe in here, so I didn't bother with the rest until after he picked a movie and filed out to make use of a larger television. Opening the door meant less doors between rabidity and I. So everything went back on.

Kurt came back before I finished, saying that his Dad was using the television, and so we'd have to settle for the smaller one in here. He brought rice cakes with him. Amelia liked rice cakes. They were covered with chocolate, usually. I liked them.

The movie started. It was nice, started out with explosives. They were very pretty. Didn't last long. Twenty minutes in, I went to eat a rice cake.

Gah! I like rice pudding. I like chocolate covered rice cakes. These are practically flavorless bits of crunchy horror. It was agony. I was fairly sure there was chocolate syrup in my bag, from Finn's ice cream. I can't use it though. The last time I put pudding on a bagel someone made me they were insulted. There is only one thing I can do. Drink enough water to hold me over until I'll be leaving. I got up to hunt. It was one of those mushy love scenes I close my eyes during anyways.

***

Kurt's Glee friends are good to him. So Burt didn't mind when Kurt told him a girl was coming over while he was at the garage. She made good pie, at least.

When he got home, the first thing Burt did was eat a sandwich. Then he settled down, and started flipping channels. He stopped at a promising program in the middle of a recreated bear mauling. It's always good to know how idiots get themselves into messes like that. So you know how not to do things.

Kurt came up once, wanted to play one of his movies. Burt would have let him, but then he'd never know how the numbskull survived. Besides, there's more than one T.V., there's no use in taking the one already in use.

It was just wrapping up when a girl walked by the door, and then whipped back upon seeing Burt.

"Are you Kurt's father?"

"Yes."

"Oh, thank goodness! You've got to save me, I'm being destroyed with rice cakes. I need water! Where is the faucet?"

"Uh. In the kitchen." She swept out, and returned to the doorway a few minutes later with a large grin and wet chin.

She thanked Burt and looked in the direction of the basement door before plopping down beside him. "This the one with the birdwatcher?"

Burt grunted in affirmation.

"I liked this one. You've got a garage?"

Burt grunted again. He's not that good with girls. Let alone bubbly ones. It's a shame that if Kurt ever brought a boy home that Burt would have to threaten bodily harm to said boy. He's pretty sure that's what you're supposed to do when you're kid's dating someone, intimidate the guy so he'll be so afraid to get you mad that they'll never even think about hurting your son. Kurt's mother's father used it on him, so it obviously works. And he'll know if the kid actually cares about Kurt, because they won't avoid Burt like the plague if they don't have any intentions to do something that would upset Kurt.

The girl considered Burt for a moment before asking, "Would you mind too terribly if I asked where your parents live?"

Burt raised an eyebrow.

***

When Pamela went upstairs Kurt took the opportunity to text Mercedes. He hadn't seen a lot of her that particular week, if he had to guess why, he'd blame Pamela's constant company. Mercedes, being more invested in the rumor mill than he, was most likely weary of incurring wrath. Kurt should think she'd have nothing to worry about, he's never seen the girl not smile to see Mercedes, and it seems almost silly that a girl unafraid of busting windows, and who could beat up Puck if she tried, would be intimidated by a squeaking inferior.

As it is, he'll probably never know for sure, because the first thing they did was cement a shopping trip for the Saturday. The anticipatory predictions on the sort of things they'd find while there was the main topic of the rest of the conversation. The movie was half through by the time Pamela returned and Kurt was forced to type in his goodbye.

When the credits began rolling down the screen, Pamela hopped straight to business. The zeal was overwhelming. She is an asset to his cause, she really is. But it's a lost cause, and even if Pamela doesn't know it, Kurt did. The only reason he agreed to letting her help him was that at that moment she gave him enough optimism to think it could work. As soon as she left, the disconnect from reality left too. Now he's playing along, not only because he doesn't want to have a lunatic who knows about his love of Finn mad at him, but because maybe if he lets her help, he might just get Finn. Now that Pamela no longer disorients him to the point of reality disconnect (for now it's more like bad reception), he's been meaning to get some of the factors that make he and Finn impossible though to her.

All she really does when they plan is ask questions. She still needs more background information to be sure she can fully tailor the plan to the situation, or something like that. Kurt didn't always know the answer, but though some sort of investigation Pamela seemed to glean the knowledge from elsewhere.

Finally Pamela questions in the vein of possible competition.

Kurt scoffed at her. "All of the females of McKinley, I'd imagine. They've got a better chance anyways. But in particular? Quinn's still not out of the running. If she played her cards flawlessly he could take her back. I doubt it, but it could happen. The biggest threat is Rachel. She happens to think there are grounds for Finn to pick her. And she's smitten. It doesn't help that Finn's immune to her power to annoy."

Pamela narrowed her eyes and her jaw slid to one side. From what Kurt's seen, this is the face she makes when analyzing things. "What grounds are these?"

"That he's the male lead and she's the star. _Obviously_, their love was ordained by the gods of Theatre." Rachel-crazy is the perfect sort on which to unleash the sarcasm he's been dying to use. "She's got a better chance than I do. All of them do. Even coach Sylvester would if she wanted."

"Who?"

"The bane of Glee Club. She caused half of the Sectionals chaos."

"Oh, dear."

"You're lucky we've been given reprieve of her. Who knows what her nickname for you would be."

"I feel that although this Sylvester lady sounds fascinating, we've strayed from the original question. So Rachel likes Finn, yes?"

"Yes."

"No."

"No?"

"Rachel has estrogen. She is looking for an actor for the lead male in her musical. I've reason to believe such a role would be detrimental to the health of Finn, overexposure to estrogenified females could lead to emotional breakdowns and a life of trauma. I cannot allow that. Thus, it is imperative that we find an actor that's up to Rachel's standards and can tolerate her… what do you call it?"

"Power to annoy?"

"No. That's mean. She's just opinionated and loud. My little brother's like that. Except his every other word to me is and insult. Rachel's far nicer."

"Where do you intend to find such an actor?"

"Where else? The nursing home."

Kurt isn't sure he gets it.

***Author's Note***

Just curious, what state do you think Pamela's from? I was stupid enough to think "New England- it's cold there!" but I didn't pick where. It's not Salem, though! I also realized that when a show has actors you have a good idea of what they look like, since for Pamela to exist, she has to look like something, and a guilt-makeover attempt seemed fairly suitable for Kurt so you'll have some visual by which to reference when I increase the detail to dialogue/monologue ratio. I've got a friend to drew a fairly realistic portrait of her, if anyone is curious. I also want you to know that I agree if you think Pamela wears a ridiculous amount. I needed it for later though, and thus invented an in-character reason for it.


	5. Fight Clubs and Subtle Snubs

There are secrets that are fun to keep secret for the sake of secrecy, and other secrets that simply aren't meant to be secret. I get a kick out of giving out tidbits of teaser information, so that people know there's a secret, but don't know the nature of it. Makes for a ton of fun. One of my favorites, at the moment, is the entire plot with Kurt, I haven't told a soul about it, but enjoy the bemusement when I talk about eliminating competition that nobody knows about. I could easily tell my little sister that my Irrationally Liked is pining over somebody and I am attempting to remedy the situation, but I'd rather she figure it out on her own.(I doubt she will though, since she seems to be under the impression it has something to do with me attempting to rip fish-rudders away from trout so I can make a doll float down a river. Heaven only knows how I managed that.)

There are secrets that must be told though. Like admitting paternity is a big one. Another is if you're secretly Canadian. I love Canada, especially since I learned that there really are Canadians that say "eh" at the end of sentences, I always thought that was completely unfounded, but while watching Canadian television with my Mommy, discovered it wasn't. The accent actually exists. My mind was boggled in the best possible way. As a result, if somebody's Canadian, I'd like to be informed, so I can have an excuse to adore them. I'd be lying if I said I haven't suspected Finn of it. He reminds me too much of a cross between a moose(what with the tallness, big brown eyes, and resemblance to the main character of a kid's book called "Morris the Moose") and a polar bear(because he reminds me of a teddy bear, but is too big to be anything but a polar teddy bear and has huge shoulders) for me not to. Maybe Alaska, if he were more of a grizzly bear, or Maine, if he were more of a black bear, for both states have moose, but I am firm set in his resemblance to a polar bear, so Canada, because it's famous for having both. Not to mention, I adore Finn, so I believe it's an innate response to extended exposure to a Canadian. Or, I could simply think he's a sweetheart, but I'll never know if he is secretly Canadian or not unless he tells me, and it's a secret, so he wouldn't do that. Or there could be no secret at all. That's part of the problem with secrecy, you never know exactly what's going on.

There are times when it doesn't matter if anybody knows, so you can choose to keep it to yourself or share. Little things, like where you keep your chewing gum or how you expand your problem solving capacity. Then again, there are times when concealment can only lead to problems, like telling nobody about a lump behind your ear and dying of brain cancer, or not telling me that you're Canadian and ending up tackled to the ground and utterly embarrassed because you didn't think it was something people needed to know. That sort of thing.

There are also times when keeping a secret is the best thing you can do. There are times you can't tell anybody because they wouldn't believe you anyways. Like if a blind, talking dingo showed up at your back door, and you let it in for the sake of hospitality and somehow, by the time it left, you ended up betrothed to the prince of a small principality near Estonia, who would believe you? At least until you get shipped off to said principality and end up all over the news, next to no one. There are times when something is better left a secret, too. Quinn, I guess, would know about that. Whether she told Finn or not, the baby was Puck's, and she'd betrayed Finn. If Finn never found out, and always thought the kid was his, he'd probably stay with Quinn forever, no nasty break up, no clean up. It seems though, that Rachel(how'd she know? I'll have to ask Kurt.) told him, and that ended in disaster. If Finn were to uncover the secret that Puck sired the child, no matter who told him, or whether or not he thought he had been the fertilizer of the zygote(even if there hadn't been a zygote), things wouldn't have ended well for Quinn. She knew that, so she didn't tell Finn, and to explain the pregnancy in a way that makes it so it isn't obvious that she cheated on him, she told him that it was his. The thought process was utterly correct, for Quinn, it was better off a secret, because whether the egg was broken on it's head or not, the yolk would run.

The girl was destined for disaster, I feel bad for her. She was, in a way, protecting Finn's feelings, and their relationship, by keeping it a secret. If it never got out, he'd never feel hurt. I feel she's suffered enough. That doesn't excuse that Finn ended up sad and lonely. She was a fool, but a desperate one.

Woah! Ha, ha. That's funny. "She's a Fool" is the title of a Lesley Gore song, I really love that stuff. Teen angst made fun, always a good thing. She sings about double standards and cheating with the most delightful combination of impassivity and bite that I simply can't help not mind that Johnny can't figure out who he likes best. Of course, by this point Johnny's been informed of his girlfriends tryst, all he needs to do now is go visit Lesley, she can be happy.

Of course, first we've got to block the paths to any other locations for Finn to run, before Kurt's happiness at the whole ordeal can be obtained. Scratch that. I'm going to see if I can't make all of them happy. The more that are merry, the merrier the merriment, right? Ha. I bet I can't say that five times fast.

***

It was morning before school, Finn and Pamela stood side by side near his locker."Finn?"

Finn looked down. "Yeah?" Pamela stared up at him. She looked at him with a calculated scrutiny. Finn took a moment to thank the wordsmiths of Glee(Kurt and Rachel), for the improvement of his vocabulary. "Calculated scrutiny" is way more accurate and concise(there goes another one!) than "like she was looking for something really hard", and sounds less dirty, too.

"How do you feel? Right now, at this very moment."

"Pretty comfortable." Finn replied, emphasizing his statement by leaning on his locker.

"That's good." She paused, face shifting to Analysis Mode. "Why did you stay in Glee?"

"What?"

"I just figured that after all the drama most people would isolate themselves, or at least avoid the people that caused it. Yet, here you are, allowing yourself to be in the same room as Quinn and Puck every day. I want to know why." She sounded guilty, like she really hadn't wanted to ask. Finn understood, ripping open fresh wounds, and all.

Finn wasn't sure why, not really. He thought a moment before responding. "I guess I like Glee more than I hate them. At first, I did quit to avoid them, and everybody else who has a part of keeping it from me. I was really down, and angry, and I didn't want to talk to anybody. I was probably at my worst then. Mr. Shue convinced me to save sectionals, though. When I was there, I sort of realized they needed me, and I sort of needed them. Not Quinn and Puck, but everybody else, we all worked really hard for sectionals, and even though I thought they betrayed me, they were still my friends. So I stayed. It still hurts to see either of _them_, but everybody else needs me, and I already lost half of my football friends when I joined Glee, I don't want to lose my Glee friends, too."

Pamela looked at him with fond sympathy. "Do you need a hug?" Finn didn't particularly want a hug, but let her hug him all the same. It was a big, tight bear hug, and Finn thinks she might have squished a vital organ or two, but it was still nice. When she let go, she gave him a cookie, and stood on tiptoe to ruffle his hair.

Finn thinks Pam is awesome, she treats him the same sort of way that his mom does. In all honesty, if it weren't for the obvious differences in age and appearance, Finn would have accidentally called her "mom" by now. He's lucky he hasn't, that would probably earn him a slushie to the face(as soon as "mom" leaves, of course).

She changed the subject. Before he knew it, she was describing what a "figgy duff" is and avidly discussing a book about a moose that couldn't count, and occasionally humming bits of the Canadian National Anthem.

Pamela left promptly when the bell for class rang. Finn ambled off to his first class.

***

"Did you say Fight Club?"

Puck was thoroughly shocked. The girl must have been at least half the hallway away from where some idiot newbie that he would wail on later asked to confirm the time of the meeting that night. The nitwit couldn't even follow the first rule. Don't talk about the Fight Club. Puck, of course, didn't address the question, just promised due punishment. Either she had heard the newbie, or employed a familiar to spy on him. Since they were whispering, and nobody any closer to him heard, he was leaning towards the latter. He quickly scanned the area for suspicious animal life. Nothing, not even a fly. He was somewhat spooked. "Nope, can't say I did."

Psycho-chick looked sort of upset. Puck had no clue why. They both walked towards Glee. When Puck bothered to look to where the other was walking, at a considerably less rigorous pace than usual, she was practically right next to him. "It's a pity." She sighed, at last.

"Huh?"

"Well, people are always mauling each other. With or without it being organized. I kind of wanted in. But it seems that my lip-reading leaves much to be desired, seeing as there is no Fight Club."

"Why the hell would you want to join a Fight Club?"

"I've laughed at violence since infancy, for one thing. There is something innately amusing about the goofy little stances and trying to seem like they don't look absolutely ridiculous when they throw punches by attempting an intimidating exterior. Everybody has failed miserably at it but kangaroos. They look like killing machines when then goes a-boxing. For another, if people are going to be hurt, it's better that there is some sort of prior knowledge that it may happen. That way you can get help sooner. I, personally, enjoy patching people up when they get hurt, and casual accidents don't happen often enough for me to ever open my first aid kit. If I can be at a fight that was going to happen anyways, then I'll be certain to get some bandage action. And they'll get medical attention, however minor, that they wouldn't get without me." She was in the chorus room before he could respond.

He kept an eye on her during practice. She only really sat in a corner, with some yarn twisting around her fingers while she watched them learn the choreography and listened to them sing. Psycho-chick has it easy. Puck has to sing his throat sore, get his feet run over by a nerdy cripple and be on the receiving end of a Berry-lecture. Berry's a psycho-freak, too, but fun to torture, and although scary, not half as creepily aware or potentially dangerous as the witch. She's also _hot_, and especially when angry. So annoying her has perks. Psycho-chick shows practically no skin, likes being bullied and if he managed to annoy her, she'd probably poison him. No benefits whatsoever. Except cookies, which would be eliminated if she decides to poison him.

At the end of practice she exchanges some words with Hummel, attacks Finn's head while he's sitting and hands Puck's Baby-Mama something(It looked like socks)before stuffing the yarn(that's attached to pointy, lethal weapons that Puck would have been suspended for having, let alone flaunting around a teacher), into her backpack. She exited the room. Puck followed.

"So you want to join a fight club to take care of people whose beating you would have just laughed through? That's messed up." She grinned at this, and offered up a cookie. Puck took it.

"Well, as least I don't have an aggression problem that I have to sort out by making a spectacle of myself to other violent, frustrated individuals. That would be _tragic_." She sounded absolutely chipper, even skipped a bit. Puck isn't sure whether or not she has just insulted him because of it. If she hadn't seems so relieved to not be a tragic, violent person, and more sarcastic, it would have definitely been an insult.

Puck only realizes he's outside when Psycho-chick stops at the sidewalk, and the sudden lack of physical activity reveals just how cold it is out. She turns around to face him. "Is there something you need? You've followed me for far longer than you needed to."

Puck has no clue why he just did that either. She was just there, and he guesses that he had nothing better to do. Of course, following her for the sake of it might freak her out and she might send out the pointy objects from earlier, so he thought fast. "Actually, yeah. Uh, I've got a problem with this, uh, shirt I've got. Yeah, it's ripped. It's _really_ bothering me. I figured you like helping people and all so…"

Crazy looked at him quizzically. "You followed me for a shirt? What made you think I could sew?"

Puck stared at her for a second. "You seem the type." She nodded.

"I can't really sew. I'm afraid of sewing machines." She stated.

"Oh." There's one ripped shirt he doesn't have to produce.

"I'm good at repairs with needle and thread though, so if it's not torn in 57 pieces, I ought to be able to help." Never mind.

She looked as though she was looking for a response when a minivan pulled up, and parked in front of them. The windows rolled down and her mom told her to get in.

While Psycho-chick was busy when opening the door to the back of the car and dumping her backpack there, Puck checked out her mom. She could totally be one of his cougars, if she needed her pool cleaned. He winked at her. She winked back.

Anise(She gets an upgrade for having a hot mom), swung into the passenger seat and said she'd bring the thread and needle for his shirt tomorrow. The minivan peeled away from the sidewalk and left the parking lot.

Alright, so he needed to cut a shirt up a bit(or maybe look for one with a rip), but he totally just got the ego boost of the day. "Score." He turned to go to his truck in the highest of spirits.

That was, until he saw the saw the stray cats watching him from the dumpsters.

***

"Where is the distraction for Rachel you promised?"

"I'm sorry, but I'm having a hard time remembering how to get to any of the nursing homes from the school. I've never been good with directions, I don't want to get lost while trying to walk to one after school and end up walking in unfamiliar circles for days, weathering the cold of night and living on gifts from my stray friends."

"How will it come to that with your giant bag of baked goods?"

"I don't know, but I'll find a way. I've suffered no major tragedy of the sort in my entire life, I'm due any day now for a life or death experience."

"I don't see that happening."

"Why not?"

"You've got a first aid kit, matches, a Swiss army knife, lock picking equipment, more food than most people can eat in a week, and enough clothes to make a tent out of, should the need arise. And weaponry. You're not getting mugged, that much is for sure."

"Not the point. The point is that I don't have a means of communication, unless there happen to be carrier pigeons roaming Lima. If I get lost, I've got no clue where I am, no clue where to go for or how to get to help. If I can't find my way to the first nursing home for certain by the time I attempt the trek, there may not be a second attempt. "

"So, if I get you a map, you'll find a new lead for Rachel?"

"I hope so. Of course, I'll need you once I lure in his grandparents, to screen the boys. You know Rachel better than I do."

"True. Unfortunately."

"Listen, I have to get a tray of muffins out of the oven, I'll talk to you tomorrow. Goodbye, Kurt."

"Goodbye, Pamela."

Pamela hung up the telephone, and Kurt switched off his cell phone. He could only hope a map would cure her fear that she'll end up lost, because Kurt can hardly see the logic in finding a singer in a nursing home, let alone that getting rid of Rachel will help him get Finn. It seems pretty hopeless a cause to him. Even without Rachel, or Quinn, Finn'll probably never look his way.

Kurt's thought along those lines for most of their plan. Every time he wants to tell Pamela to call it off, though, something stops him.

The fact that Pamela talked him into it in the first place. The fact that Finn seems to trust her. That Finn trusts Kurt. That he's not willing to complete end the quest that he's been at for so long. That if Pamela is noticeably angry with him for stopping her, the slushie facials and dumpster dives might start back up. That there's nothing he wants more than Finn. That she saw in her intelligent, if scrambled, thought process, how the arrangement would work the best for, not only him, but Finn.

Finn trusts her, and she wants what she thinks is best for him. She thinks that's Kurt, and has stated that she is willing to go into chemical warfare if nothing else helps Finn see the light. It's that keeping him from calling the whole thing off. He'd never pull it off on his own. But, maybe, with carefully placed messages from elsewhere, Finn will see what Kurt and Pamela(and even as a joke, to a degree, Puck) see.

That Kurt is Finn's best option.

***Author's Note***

I apologize the huge delay, first I rewrote the thing 6 times to get it right, and then my computer fails. So I go to rewrite it, and that computer ends up shipped to the repair shop. This is the third computer I've tried writing this thing on. This is utterly inexcusably awful writing, so sorry. The nursing home scenes have been giving me a hard time, so have Rachel Tina and Artie. (Also, I am wont to make up a character for Rachel, since making up one person takes up enough energy as it is, so I'm trying for a canon character fix up, and )This is, essentially a filler.(Who got the "Secretly Canadian" thing?)

By the way, I dedicate the Pamela's mom bit to my mother, who has a crush on Puck, which I found ironic, what with the whole cougar thing. Also, I'm awful about hating crude language, so I cleaned Puck's mouth up a bit. I don't say swears, I can barely type them, I'm so bad. So expect slight edits in diction like that. I hope you enjoyed it, otherwise.


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